


Chant de Guerre

by Shielddeputydirector



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Louis LeBeau & France, Origin Story, but I think it should be, is not a relationship tag on Ao3, slightly historically innacurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 19:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14551893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shielddeputydirector/pseuds/Shielddeputydirector
Summary: The story of the day Corporal LeBeau was shot down by the Germans.(Moving old works over from ff.net)Nominated (Did not Win) for the 2014 Papa Bear Awards in the following categories:Best SnapshotBest Unique Story





	Chant de Guerre

Corporal LeBeau sat pensively in the belly of the plane, awaiting the order to fly with the rest of the crew. There were five bombers, in total, leaving France tonight. A small area outside Salon was their jumping-off point, and they were bound for England to be joined with the rest of the aviators and soldiers such as himself who had gotten away before the damnable traitors in power had signed the armistice and let the Germans in peaceably. He resisted the urge to spit as he thought of the Régime de Vichy. He contented himself with a sneer behind the scarf. This was a motley crew, he knew. 

His mother, before he had left her alone in the small Parisian apartment that had been their family's since before he was born, had wrapped a woolen scarf around his neck and admonished him to keep warm in England. "Heaven knows how those Englishmen survive, it gets that bad!" He had chuckled and kissed her farewell, and never, never did he think it was for the last time.

He was Free French now, whatever that might mean.

But there was the signal, and then the brave few taxied and rose aloft on perfect formation. He did not know if he would ever see France again, or if he would be dropping bombs or strafing targets on her sacred soil come the next few weeks. The English would have to teach him how; he was no pilot. They would go where the Germans were, which regrettably meant everywhere but Germany. Filthy boches.

It became apparent immediately that they were in serious trouble. Anti-aircraft fire streaked among them like lightning. Ahead of him his friend Remy's plane was hit, and LeBeau was not entirely convinced any one of the men on board made it out alive. He hoped they had not, for their sake, and hated himself for it.

Never the most talented pilot, Lieutenant Bosse managed to keep it together until they had bypassed Salon itself, headed for the coast and the channel. There was an almighty roar, and the bomber shook as if the Adversary himself were sitting on the tail. Being the rather dragooned radio operator, LeBeau was the best protected in the belly of the Amiot 143 as flack and shrapnel tore through it. Aghast at the damage to the tail section, which was currently on fire, he returned his eyes to the front and tried to see past the smoke to the cockpit. The screams of agony form Rameau the bombadier was eclipsed only in horror by the silence from Bosse. The plane began to dive, and LeBeau had a sinking feeling he was all alone. Even Remeau had silenced and LeBeau, as he lurched unsteadily with the scarf wrapped around his face to protect from the smoke, did not know which was worse; being alone, or listening to the screaming.

Bosse was dead already, slumped against the controls with half his head having taken the impact of a chunk of metal. LeBeau hauled him out of his restraints and concentrated on trying to pick a nice spot to crash-land and burn to death.

Merde.

He could jump, of course; he had time and a parachute he was not trained how to use. But he couldn't guarantee the enemy wouldn't get their hands on parts to use from the wreckage. He'd been prepared to give his life for his country, and it seemed as though he'd get his chance.

I don't want to die; I have something yet to do.

The thought came unbidden as he pulled up, mimicking motions he'd only ever seen second-hand, buzzing a field almost too closely with a flaming aeroplane, and climbed rapidly. Up, it would seem, the plane handled just fine. LeBeau couldn't fly a plane; he'd never been trained and he had no idea what he was doing. But he'd watched Bosse and the others often enough, and if that idiot, may he rest in peace, could do it then so could Louis LeBeau. He turned turned the plane with difficulty and not a few muttered prayers, and headed back the way they had come, a flaming vision of Hell's Fury bearing down on the anti-aircraft, drawing their fire away from the remaining three plane that sped safely away to answer de Gaulle's call to arms.

Thanks to his inability to fly quickly, LeBeau had time to set Bosse back in his seat and lash him to the controls, using the man's weight to keep the plane on course. He figured the Lieutenant would have appreciated it. He ran quickly, trying to see if anyone was left, but they were all dead, except there could be no confirmation for Laval. The dorsal gunner's station was empty, and hopefully that meant he'd gotten out safely. LeBeau didn't know or have time to find out. In a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life, he left the care of Laval to the Almighty and jumped. He had bailed out at the very last minute, and had the joy of seeing his plane take with it that one anti-aircraft nest at the very least. 

As he pulled the cord he hoped was the parachute deployment bit, he was rewarded with the silk envelope opening above him like a promise.

The fact that he landed quite neatly in the arms of the waiting German army barely dampened his good mood.

Vive la Résistance.


End file.
